


Simpler Times

by cacophonyGilded



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: @the founding fathers ill see you in hell and we can talk abt this one, Jamilton - Freeform, M/M, and a note of apology, biting kink, its mostly buildup, originally this was a pwp but just having porn with no setup annoys me so it, somewhere between hatesex and angst, this is a repost from earlier with a few minor changes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-17
Updated: 2016-04-17
Packaged: 2018-06-02 18:11:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,425
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6577111
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cacophonyGilded/pseuds/cacophonyGilded
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The president of the United States pays a visit to New York on July 12th, 1804.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Simpler Times

**Author's Note:**

> Repost--when I originally posted this, I had a few sentences that described Jefferson and Hamilton as white. As I was overtly using the Lin Manuel-Miranda play for inspiration, this was a misjudgement on my part, as well as racist whitewashing of POC characters. I would like to thank the reviewers who pointed this out to me, and I hope that my edits make better work of the situation. 
> 
> It honestly works better in this way anyhow. Thank you for reading!

“Alexander, what in the name of God’s seven layers of Holy  _ Hell _ do you think  _ you’re _ doing?” 

Out of all the voices, all the people who could have met him on that dirt road, naturally it would be this one. Trudging toward a battle (maybe his death) with one enemy, only to hear the voice of another.  _ Lovely. _

“Ah, Jefferson. I heard you were in town.”

“I just got in, actually.”

“Of course. I’d love to stop and chat, but I’m on my way to a duel. So, if you’ll excuse me--”

Hamilton didn’t pause his long strides. No point in giving time to Jefferson--the other man would demand it of him soon enough. Jefferson was good at that--demanding and taking and pushing. When a strong grip fell on his shoulder, Hamilton wasn’t surprised. Just exasperated. He allowed his body to be turned, every inch of his form speaking wonders of how little he'd slept last night--his usually upright stance was slouched, his long hair was tied back into a hasty bun, and various strands of those pitch tresses marked the dark circles that underlined his tired eyes. 

“Not that I give two shits about my vice president, but haven’t you done enough to Burr? You’ve ruined his damn career twice over, man. Let it be.”

Alexander pushed away from Jefferson’s hold. “Thanks for your input in an affair you know nothing about, Jefferson.  _ He _ challenged  _ me _ . I accepted his summons, and now, we duel. Who am I if not a man of my word?”

Looking up, Hamilton was met with a scowl and pursed lips. “Yeah, unless those words are ‘ _ Til death do us part. _ ’” 

Alexander scoffed. “Ah, be sure to tell Sally that one, won’t you? At least Mrs. Reynolds was old enough to consent to our acts.”

Jefferson regarded his rival with bared teeth. A palpable, thick silence swelled between the two, the contempt of many years of disagreements settling into the space left by a break in exchanged insults. Finally unable to stand it, Hamilton spun on his heels, continuing along on his way. Every step he took was a step away from Jefferson, and a step toward his doom.  _ How strange _ , he thought,  _ to have a distinction between the two. How times changed.  _

A good twenty yards ahead, the crunch of Jefferson’s straight lasted boots announced his presence to Hamilton’s back. The president quickly reached him and matched his quick gait, imposing his unwanted elbow as a link to Hamilton’s, ensuring an anchor to keep the ex-treasury secretary from drifting away. Another stretch passed in an aggressive silence, both sides feeling the jab of sharp elbows as Hamilton tried to wrestle his arm free while Jefferson moved forcefully to keep it, finally ending with Hamilton’s defeat and a potent glare of resigned hatred. This time, it was his turn to break through the silence, voice high and tight.

“And just what,” he regarded his rival with only a partial turn of the head, presenting himself as loftily as he could at his shorter stature, “do you think you’re doing?”

“I’m joining you on your death march. Hamilton, Burr has it out for you. Just turn around.”

“Why are you telling me this? Trying to smear my honor through so much mud? Thank you, Mr. President, but you’ve done quite enough.”

“Oho, so now _ I  _ was the one who smeared you? I don’t actually recall being the one who single handedly penned your demise--funny--I actually could have sworn that was  _ you _ .”

Hamilton quickened his pace. “Why are you  _ here _ ? In this city, with me… I half expected that--god forbid--you had a commitment to governing this country.”

“It’s early, Alexander. I’ll attend to my affairs soon enough.”

“That didn’t answer my question.”

“Mmmmh.” Jefferson hummed amicably, matching Hamilton’s quickened pace and tightening his hold on the other man’s arm. “So, where’s this thing happening, anyhow? I want to know how far I’m walking.”

“New Jersey.” Hamilton’s words were clipped and icy. Neither man looked at the other, but instead had their gazes fixed on the road before them.

“Quite a walk.”

“I’ll catch a boat.”

Their voices fell silent--what was there to say? The two men, rivals in a time long past, walked on, and if there wasn’t friendship in their matched steps, there was, at least, the absence of outright hostility. Neither was as young as he once was, and if an onlooker saw the pair, the first word that would come to their mind was just _ “tired.”  _ Even still, there was a life in them yet. A vibrancy to Jefferson’s intelligent eyes. A nervous, eternal energy in Hamilton’s steps. 

Seconds slipped to minutes, minutes that fell between them like grains of sand in an hourglass. The sun made its first appearance overhead, and Jefferson attempted to point it out, only to be met with indifference. At long last, they exited the city and came to a dock at the edge of a river.

“Hamilton, I’m telling you one more time--don’t do this. Think about your wife. What will Eliza say when she learns you killed a man in the same way your son died? Or do you care so little for her that it doesn’t matter?”

Hamilton glared up at his partner in this walk, fury pouring back into his anxious fear. Not about to give Jefferson the chance to stop him, to halt his righteous anger, his furious march, he pulled his arm back quickly, one jerk disconnecting the lifeline that grew in the intertwined elbows.  _ And a good riddance to it,  _ Hamilton thought as he pulled away. He was never one for unbreakable bonds.

“Don’t tell me how much I love my wife. You’ll never understand me, Jefferson.”

He looked away, then shook his head at the ground. “Besides. I don’t intend to shoot him.”

Jefferson’s lips tightened into a line, face unreadable. “Isn’t that sweet. Your tombstone can be right next to your son’s. This ain’t gonna bring him back, you know.”

“Of course not.”

“So I’m at a loss. You’re not going there to kill Burr. You’re not going in some misguided attempt to resurrect your kid. Why are you _ doing  _ this?”

“I’m a man of honor. Burr challenged me to a duel.”

Hamilton’s eyes reached Jefferson’s then, daring him to challenge the statement, an expression he had worn many a time in his short life. 

Jefferson had never been one to turn down a challenge.

“Spoken like a man bent on suicide. Hamilton, get down from your high horse--you’re not hard to read!”

Hamilton tensed, then slumped forward onto himself, trying as best he could to obscure his face from the man in front of him. Hamilton had never liked to show his shame, especially if he could help it. 

“My son is dead--my career, in shambles. My wife--Jefferson,  _ look _ at what I’ve done to my wife. Are you so quick to speak on topics you know nothing about?” He pushed past him, practically jogging to the dock now. Once again, Jefferson matched his gait, caught his shoulder.  

“I buried my wife in ‘82. I’ve outlived six of my damn children. ‘Don’t speak on topics you know nothing about’? Now who’s a hypocrite, Alexander? But look--I’m not going off to kill myself on the dueling ground with  _ Aaron Burr _ of all people. Crissakes, man--look at yourself!”

“Clearly, Mr. President, I’m not you. You’ve made quite sure of that.”

Jefferson became suddenly conscious of his hand, still on Hamilton’s shoulder. He made no effort to remove it--it felt now like the last lifeline he had, a thin fishing wire standing between Alexander and his doom. Ask him why he cared, and he wouldn’t be able to answer--maybe it was stability for the country? Maybe it was a matter of simple fear?--but suddenly all that mattered was keeping Hamilton off that boat. The waiting seacraft bobbed in the morning light, peaceful and picturesque, but it might as well have been manned by Charion, a craft cutting through the unmoving water of the Styx. Jefferson knew, with increasing clarity, that if Alexander got onto that boat, he’d come back across it dead or dying.

“Hamilton, Eliza doesn’t deserve this. If you don’t turn back for yourself, do it for her.”

“I’ve done everything I can for Eliza. She’ll understand someday.”

“Do it for-- _ damn _ , do it for me. Don’t--Alexander, are you listening to me?--Don’t get on that boat.”

“For you?  _ Please _ , Jefferson,  _ please _ tell me you’re joking. You’ve held nothing but contempt for me from the second you came back from your precious France. Now you beg me to stay alive? I’d bask in your attention if I still believed a single one of your twisted words. As it stands? All I can do is ask--why are you doing this?”

Jefferson’s hand tightened on Hamilton’s shoulder. “For the same reason you promoted me against Burr, I suppose--lesser of two evils?”

“Maybe Burr and I will shoot each other dead, and you’ll be free of both of us.”

“Ten years too late, Hamilton.”

“I quite need to stop procrastinating, then. Let me go.”

Had he not been experiencing it, Hamilton wouldn’t have expected Jefferson’s hand to have such a strength. The statesman had more power than he seemed to possess, and not all of it concentrated in the realm of politics. 

“Who will I argue with if  _ you’re _ gone, Hamilton?”

“A man as belligerent as you? There must be a line waiting.”

Thomas shook his head. “Maybe so, but my impatient suitors still aren’t quite so insistent as yours. Maybe I need to go off and shoot Burr myself to secure my place as your enemy.”

“Are we enemies, Jefferson? I’d hardly cast your role in my life as anything higher than mere indifference now.”

“Ouch. That hurts, Alexander.”

“Surely not as much as your hand is hurting my shoulder. Mr. President, if you would just let me attend to my affairs--”

“I would, but you might need that shoulder to shoot. Oh dear, looks like you’re rescheduling.”

“You’re  _ impossible _ . What do you get from this, Jefferson? What purpose could this possibly serve you?”

“I just don’t want to see a senseless death. Duels are dumb and immature, you know.”

“I’ve been told.”

“Glad we’re on the same page--”

“But I’ve a duty to my word! I agreed to a duel, Jefferson. I’m fighting a duel.”

“And if I challenge you instead?”

“I’ll decline.”

“My god.” Jefferson’s hair picked up a bit in the morning breeze. It framed his face in a small explosion, a sea of coal against his dark skin. Hamilton shook his head sharply, trying to snap himself out of these inane observations. “You’re making a mistake.”

“I seem to excel at that.”

“You self obsessed, blathering, pitiable  _ idiot _ . What forces does it take to change your stubborn mind?”

“The entire British battalion could not sway me.”

“That’s an understatement. Look, I’m not the redcoats, and I’m not you of impossible will. I can’t write you into submission, either. No one has ever called me a slouch with a pen, but I’m not you. Ink and parchment aren’t my preferred toys of seduction.”

Hamilton paused, tracing back over the President’s phrasing and swallowing the lump that was quickly accumulating in his throat. “And what _ is _ , if I--if I may ask?”

Jefferson cocked an eyebrow. “My dazzling good looks. My voice. My massive--”

_ “Got it.”  _

“Hamilton.” Jefferson’s eyes flashed challengingly. “Is that what it takes to persuade you? How long has it been since you’ve been satisfied. C’mon.”

If there was one thing Hamilton resented more than Jefferson, it was his own mind for even considering the offer. Jefferson was his rival, his adversary, the thorn in his side, a self-serving southern slaver--and yet, Hamilton, too, never turned down so blatant a challenge. It was with something between hatred and curiosity that he then regarded the taller man.

“Honestly? Too long. But I hardly think anything you could pull out of Monticello would do the job, Mr. President.”

“Is that so? Look, I know you enjoy getting it on with your whore Reynolds and all, but I guarantee she’d  _ pale _ in comparison.”

“Where’s your concern for my wife now, Jefferson?”

“I’m sure Eliza’d rather play nice and share then lose you entirely, no?”

Hamilton’s face twisted into a snarl, glaring up at his opponent. “I’ll have to take your word for it.”

Jefferson bent at the waist, looking past his ex-rival’s exhausted facade and into what very well might have been his soul with a new fervor. Hamilton returned the volley, standing up straighter to match Jefferson’s fiery energy in a second. Even as they tensed for a fight, something between them relaxed. In comparison to the day’s earlier events, this felt natural. The walk here, the subdued attempt to pull Hamilton back from the jaws of death--all of that was surreal and intrinsically wrong. This, this tension in their bones, this veiled contempt mixed with not so well-veiled desire? All of that was natural between the two. That was what they knew--it recalled a simpler time, cabinet meetings replaying in their minds and replacing the years of burdens that had sprouted in the time since they knew them.

Hamilton moved first, leaning his face nearer and nearer to Jefferson’s, creeping forward until their mouths threatened to mesh. As early as it was, the dock was deserted--and it was a good thing, too; any onlooker would be getting quite the show. Pulling short just out of Jefferson’s reach, Hamilton’s lips parted. Seductively? He’d like to think so.

“You think you’re all that Mr. President? Prove it.”

Jefferson feigned shock. “Oh, Mr. Hamilton, what about your duel? You couldn’t possibly leave Burr  _ waiting-- _ ”

Hamilton’s frame filled with a sense of frustrated stress, bottled up and threatening to explode. In seconds, his rigidity slipped even further to outright anger.

“Hang the duel. Hang Burr, too. You talk big, Jefferson, but let’s see if your package can measure up--”

Jefferson cut him off, untwining the ribbon holding Hamilton’s loose bun together and replacing it with his fingers, pulling at the silk of Hamilton’s hair. Any false semblance of space between them was now negated; there was less then an inch between their mouths and even less when Jefferson grinned, teeth flashing. Jesus, was Hamilton sweating, and it had nothing to do with the heat of the day--no one, not Eliza, not Angelica, not even Maria Reynolds had ever succeeded in getting him this riled up.

“Oh, don’t worry yourself. I’m sure you’ll find that it will.”

Unsure whether he wanted to kiss him or bite him, Hamilton bridged the final gap and quickly found himself doing both. It wasn’t the first time he had kissed a man (years in army barracks and flagrant bisexuality had ensured that) but it was the most passionate--Jefferson’s mouth burned and nipped and  _ ohgodyes _ \--it had been far too long since he had gotten any action whatsoever, but it wasn’t just years of little stimulation that was quickly sending all his blood to his groin. 

Moments later, (simultaneously an eternity and altogether  _ far too little _ time having passed) Jefferson pulled back, panting lightly. 

“That enough to sate you, statesman?”

Hamilton made a low noise, somewhere between a groan and a growl. “Not on your life.”

He moved to continue the kiss, thirsty and desperate for something, anything, friction,  _ action _ , goddamnit--but Jefferson sidestepped him with a patronizing smile on his overly-smug face.

“Uh, uh. Hamilton, are you out of your damn mind? Anyone could come up here at any time, and personally, I’d rather not hang for my actions here. If you’re that desperate for my--”

“A- _ hem _ .”

“--you can wait until we get back to my inn.”

Hamilton was not a man to whine, but at that moment, a high, needy note escaped from the back of his throat before he could bite it back. Jefferson was right, of course he was right--but  _ god _ , he couldn’t wait that long.

Jefferson took off. This time, it was Hamilton who found himself jogging after, trying to match stride with an uncomfortable ... _ situation  _ making walking more difficult than it needed to be. 

The trip to Jefferson’s rented inn was quiet, as the one to the edge of the duel had been. This, though, was noticeably different; the steps were quicker and more supercharged with the electricity flowing between the two men as if they had been strung together with wires. Forming bruises on Hamilton’s jaw only quickened his steps, reminding him of the borrowed time he was now living on, walking away from what very well might have been his death. In this time, he was given the silence he needed to reflect, and in his reflection, he realized one thing. This was  _ insane _ . In his head, Washington’s voice echoed--if history had its eye on him, what would  _ this _ ridiculous joke of a situation entail? Walking away from what surely would have been a world changing duel with his friend, his enemy… and for what?

A quickie with the _ President of the United States. _

Shrugging off his internal conflict, Hamilton voiced none of his personal monologue, choosing instead to remind himself that he could be doing a lot worse. 

“And what will they say, Thomas, when our nation’s third president neglects to show up for his duties tomorrow?”

Jefferson raised an eyebrow, the only change on his expressionless face. “I imagine they’ll understand. After all,” he looked down suggestively, a slight smirk playing over his features, “I’ve got  _ bigger _ issues to deal with.”

Face flushing, Hamilton ducked his head and elected not to speak again (a truly momentous occasion for him) until they reached the president’s rented estate.

The place, in person, was grander than Alexander had anticipated. Nothing but the best for the president, he supposed. It was true--pretentious as he was, Jefferson had quite the knack for architecture, and even this rented palace spoke of it; its French styles dwarfed the surrounding American buildings by a wide margin.

“I’d offer to give you the grand tour, but I think there’s more  _ pressing _ matters at hand.”

Hamilton hurriedly agreed and allowed himself to be lead up stairs, around corners, and then finally into Jefferson’s bedchamber. Briefly, he took in the scene--the books and papers stacked up against and on top of every conceivable surface, the tidy state of the bed, the large windows. Though Jefferson had only been in town for a day, the space had a regal connotation that Hamilton found fitting for the man, if not annoying. 

These observations could only capture his interest for so long. Jefferson was right-- _ pressing _ matters.

“Hey…”

“Hold your damn horses. I swear, you’re like an alley cat in heat. One minute, you’re ready to die of the dueling ground, and the next you’re jumping off and stripping faster than you ruined your own reputation.”

“Mr. President, I’m sure you’ll recall, I tried my hardest to go to the duel.”

“Understatement.” Jefferson muttered.

“And  _ you _ were the one with the pressing interest in bringing me he--”

Jefferson rolled his eyes, quickly swooping down and shut Hamilton up in one swift kiss that was charged with tangible energy. Pulling away, a string of saliva hanging from his mouth (though if it was his or Hamilton’s, he didn’t know), Jefferson laughed at his former rival’s dazed face.

“Man, I shoulda thought of that ages ago!”

Hamilton made a short lived rally to save face, starting up a half-hearted protest before letting himself be subdued by Jefferson’s resurrected quest for manifest destiny--in this case, claiming his god given right to every inch of Hamilton’s hot skin. Soft bristles of facial hair pricked his cheeks and forehead. Sweet with sweat and deepened passion, Jefferson pulled at the other man’s clothes, undoing buttons and untying fabric without breaking contact. Hamilton, ever in a rush, sloppily mirrored the process on Jefferson, and in no time at all, skin pressed to skin, flush with warmth and anticipation.

Hamilton had no time for subtleties or enjoying the moment. 

“Do you have…?”

Jefferson hummed affirmation, wiping his mouth with one hand and motioning with the other. “In the drawer.”

“So prepared, Mr. President.”

Jefferson rolled his eyes, not dignifying the schoolyard taunts that Hamilton threw endlessly with a response. There was a time and a place for these little stinging, petty comments, but this was decidedly not the time, nor the place. 

Hamilton, to his credit, didn’t take another chance to poke fun at Jefferson, instead leaning across the bed and rummaging in the indicated drawer until he came out with the small jar of lotion. Back bare, Jefferson was left to trace his exposed spine lazily, the pad of his thumb tracing sensitive skin. Hamilton shuddered and sat up triumphant with the jar.

Jefferson took it from him, eyes half lidded, inviting him in. Not breaking this languid eye contact, he gestured with his chin. “Lay back.”

“ _ Me?  _ Surely, you mean  _ you-- _ ”

“Hamilton, please. When they call me a great man, they aren’t just referring to my political career. Let me do this for you.”

Hamilton couldn’t stop his face from going red, or his eyes from darting down.  _ Well. _ Maybe the president wasn’t all talk after all. Increasingly submissive, Hamilton relented and, still maintaining contemptuous eye contact with his past rival, leaned back on an elbow. Jefferson followed in his suit, coating the fingers of one hand in the cool cream and twining the other in Hamilton’s hair, pulling hair and working his fingers at the same time. Hamilton, almost on the verge of being overstimulated a few seconds in, could do nothing but groan.

An unspoken truce settled between them as they got situated, Hamilton spread-legged and prone, Jefferson nipping and teasing at his jaw, growling low against hot skin. In return, the former treasury secretary reunited his mouth with Jefferson’s, running his tongue briefly over familiar lips, lips he had spent so long arguing with-- _ well, _ there wasn’t much of that now, unless one counted the rhythm they fell into to be a marching song.

“ _ Mmh _ \--it’s funny, Thomas, that-- _ ah! _ \--I ever considered Miss Reynolds when you were out there with such unexpected talents.”

Jefferson bit a touch harder into Hamilton’s skin that time, breaking the surface and leaving a mark on his neck that wouldn’t be easy to hide. “They were only unexpected to one as unobservant as you, Alexander.”

“Be that as it-- _ ah! _ \--may, what do you think your vice president would say if he knew just what you were doing at this moment?”

“Hamilton, the day I give a rat’s ass about what Aaron Burr thinks about me is the day that Hell freezes over.”

Alexander smiled into Jefferson’s shoulder, snorts of laughter coming easier than they had in months. How strange--the source of all his troubles in a time long past now coming as a crusader to bandage his wounds. A part of his mind rested in suspicion, but a part of him--well, he couldn’t say he wasn’t enjoying this. Especially not when--oh  _ yes _ \--Jefferson did  _ that _ . 

“Imagine what any of them--anyone--would think! We could have been a terrifying alliance, had we stopped fighting even once for long enough to reach a consensus. We could have--oh, yes,  _ there _ \--ruled the country ourselves.”

“Then for America’s sake, man, thank God we couldn’t stop bickering.”

Words were coming faster now, peppered with groans of near climax impatience. Jefferson’s bites grew rougher, staining Hamilton’s skin a rainbow of reds and purples. Hamilton, in return, gave light kisses to Jefferson’s broad shoulders, only pausing to nip when he was marked particularly harshly in an area too public for his liking. Alexander, ever in a hurry, forever running out of time, finished first--his body exploded like the nation’s independence day, fireworks punctuating the most bizarre morning of his life. Not long after, Jefferson cried out, surprising even himself when he gasped “Alexander!”, his back arching over his rival’s form.

In the few minutes afterward, there were no words between them (what could they say?), just a shared silence in the bliss of afterglow, interrupted only by the panting breaths of both parties and the soft noise of Jefferson repositioning himself off of Hamilton and to his left, resting on the bed. Hamilton found himself gazing at the president’s face as if it was a puzzle he needed to solve. Jefferson answered only with the cock of an eyebrow.

“Now, don’t go telling me you love me all of a sudden.”

“Just like that? In the heat of passion? That would be almost as bad as  _ calling out someone’s name _ like a schoolboy’s first time--oh, wait.”

“Oh, fuck you Hamilton--”

“Round two? Already?”

“--God. There for a second, I almost thought your talent in bed made up for your severely lacking personality.”

“That was your first mistake.”

“Clearly. Next time, put that tongue to use outside your jabbering mouth, won’t you?”

“Sex, I’ll give you. Much more than that, Thomas, and you’ll have to pay me.”

“You wound me.”

“That’s not what you were saying a minute ago…”

Hamilton grinned, burying his face in Jefferson’s shoulder, delivering lazy kisses for the sake of something to occupy his mouth. Inactivity would be the death of him. Jefferson allowed himself to bask in the sensation for a moment or two, the barest hint of a smile on his face as he regarded the statesman in his bed. 

The moment could only last so long. Jefferson repositioned himself again, facing Hamilton head on.

“Alexander.”

“Mmn?” Hamilton made no move to answer the call of serious action, instead only wearing a look of displeasure at having lost his fixation.

“Listen. Do whatever you want; I don’t care, but just know that if I see the words “Jefferson Pamphlet” from you, I’ll go back on everything and have Burr shoot you myself. Got it?”

And just like that, everything was back to old times once again. A patronizing smile replacing the nebulous, lovestruck one he had donned just seconds before, Hamilton answered. “Oh, only if you, Mr. President, promise not to accuse me of improper speculation on Monticello in the meantime.”

Jefferson laughed as he took Hamilton’s mouth to his once again.

“No promises, Alexander… No promises.”


End file.
